


Coquelicot

by Etwas_Schlau



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Blasphemy, Demons, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/F, Fashion & Couture, First Meetings, Heaven & Hell, Immortality, Meet-Cute, POV Second Person, Present Tense, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etwas_Schlau/pseuds/Etwas_Schlau
Summary: Coquelicot: (KOHK-li-koh) a shade of red. Originally a French vernacular name for the wild corn poppy, which is distinguished by its bright red color and orange tint.





	Coquelicot

**Author's Note:**

> **Note** I do not own Overwatch. All rights to the game and its characters belong to Blizzard.
> 
> this has been on my google docs for three months and i'm done trying to edit it. sombra is a demon living out her afterlife with little keeping her going and amélie is the CEO of her own fashion company: aka a shitpost masquerading as a coherent fic. if the heaven and hell stuff offends your religion, i sincerely apologize.

You don’t quite recall when exactly life stopped being exciting

You’ve been alive for so long that you’ve lost count of how many years have passed since you were born. You stopped keeping track around six hundred because what was the point? It’s not like your fellows in the underworld would ever care enough to ask. Unsurprisingly, when your afterlife is objectively infinite, age doesn’t hold the same significance it used to.

You figure you must be at least nine hundred now. Maybe eight hundred? You can’t possibly be more than one thousand, can you? No… Maybe?

When you were a young child, all those centuries ago when you were still alive, your mother would warn you of the punishment and damnation awaiting in hell. A pit of ever-burning fire, she had vividly described to you back when you were hardly old enough to comprehend such things. As it turns out, she was wrong. The beauty of hell was that, to the untrained eye, it seemed like paradise.

And, in a way, it was. There were no lakes of flame, no unending torture, no evil goat man waiting to make eternity as painful as possible. It was just a sort of crowded eternity, and who wouldn’t jump at the chance for immortality?

 _You._ Now that you know what immortality feels like, the only thing you wish is that it would stop. (It’s ironic in a bitter sort of way, you think, that you still dream about death as you once did when you were a lonely, damaged orphan dwelling in the world of the living.)

You’ve lived, you’ve seen, and you’ve reached a point where there is nothing left. What are you supposed to occupy your time with when you’ve spent years distracting yourself with alcohol, sex, and gambling? When you’ve toyed and bargained with humans, struck deals both fair and dishonorable? When you’ve cheated and hacked through the massive majority of the video games you used to enjoy when you were alive? What is there left to conquer?

These are the thoughts apathetically crawling through your mind as you flit into your local Starbucks (you can’t believe they still have these places, really.) You order a grande hazelnut macchiato; the same coffee you’ve ordered since you were a tired adolescent with an addiction to caffeine. You muster a flirtatious grin to the barista and they blink, puzzled, having entirely forgotten your lack of payment.

The perks of being a demon. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve used your powers for mischief.

You decide to settle into a corner table for two; you come here every day yet it’s been months since you’ve stayed in the cafe. (Most days you walk the streets as you sip your sugary-sweet beverage, but today the clouds are blue-grey and faraway peals of thunder forebode a storm, so you sit.)

It’s surprisingly tranquil, you find, having a moment to yourself. It’s been some time since you’ve rest. A lot of your afterlife has been spent rushing and hurrying from place to place, anything to fill the spaces between trips to hell.

Most demons spend the brunt of their time in hell with others, but you’ve never had much of an affinity for other people. Some demons choose to make new friends with which to reminisce about their past lives whilst others search tirelessly for those they knew while living. (A futile task, with the continuous influx of souls, trying to track down a single person was an undertaking nigh unto impossible.)

The main issue that came with lingering in hell, aside from the nagging boredom, was the pointless institution many choose to affect; demons of all sorts grouping together to do what was essentially playing pretend en masse, impersonating the society of the living as they had once known. It was distasteful and bizarrely chilling to see beings so old yet so ready to cling to routines and pastimes that had, over time, dissolved into little more than dust and memories.

You’re unsure how much time passes as you nurse your drink, gazing into middle distance until your eyes ache and you close them. You hear rain begin pelting on the roof of the building, the jingling of the bell on the door and the shuffling of wet shoes as patrons flood the cafe, seeking solace from the storm. The warm sound of countless voices’ mindless chatter grows to a crescendo around you and you let it envelop you. It’s comforting, in a way, sitting in as life goes on around you. Peaceful.

The universe does so love testing you, though, thus your peace is short-lived as the chair across from you screeches against the tiled linoleum. Your tired eyes flicker open reluctantly and a notched eyebrow rises almost of its own accord.

There’s a woman sitting at your table, fairly drenched from head to toe. She has pale skin almost tinted blue from cold and thick, dark hair taut in a ponytail that reaches well down her back. Circular vermilion sunglasses obscure most of her impeccably made-up eyes and her pursed lips are daubed with black lipstick. Her outfit is composed of dark, earthy tones; the form-fitting wool turtleneck clinging to her frame is glistening with what you highly hope is rainwater, seemingly ill-protected by the coffee-coloured designer coat draped over her shoulders.

She doesn't acknowledge your existence for an uncomfortably long moment until she finally lifts her lukewarm gaze from the expensive handbag in her lap.

“There are no other free seats,” she explains, answering the question you hadn’t yet asked. Her voice is indifferent, saturated with a French melody that makes you sit up straighter.

“Get caught in the storm?” you tease, tilting your head as you examine the intriguing, yet waterlogged, woman.

“ _Évidemment_.”

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks and it enthralls you. You’re the most interesting thing most people have ever seen, with your indigo eyes and hip mohawk and incomparable sass.

You lean forward, elbows on the table. The woman is delicately removing ruddy leather gloves from her long, graceful fingers and rooting in her purse. She withdraws a file and begins grooming a fingernail that you’re almost certain doesn’t need it.

“I like your sunglasses. Very red.”

“It is not red, it is coquelicot,” she corrects, eyes flickering briefly to yours.  “They are designer.”

There's something in her gaze that makes you tilt your head. She seems smug (and of course she does, her entire personage reeks of pretension,) but somehow soft. As if she is trying to impress you.

“So are mine,” you quip, gently pulling at the skin beneath your eye and poking your iris with the tip of your finger to flaunt the contacts you’re wearing.

Wry amusement manifests itself in the crooked slope of the stranger’s dark lips and you feel giddily proud at having piqued her reluctant interest.

“Guillard!” calls a barista across the cafe as they deposit a coffee in a to-go cup on the end of the counter. The woman across from you elegantly slides from her seat, striding across the shop to retrieve her beverage.

She returns to her chair and you can tell from the way she is sitting that she does not plan on staying.

“The rain has stopped.”

You know what she means but you don’t want to. “Yeah.”

The intriguing Guillard woman places something that looks like a scrap of paper on the table and slides it across the smooth wood. You glance down.

It’s a business card.

Before you can offer a teasing quip in response, she stands, lifting a long finger to her lips, which are curled into a coquettish smile. “ _Faire taire,_ ” she chides and then she is out the door.

* * *

You show up at her office of a foggy morning with a smile and a pastry. You have no idea what the butterfly-shaped dessert even _is_ , something called a ‘palm-yay’ or something? It doesn’t matter because it’s French and extravagant, just like the woman you’re waiting for. Fitting.

Her business card had lead to you to a skyscraper in the heart of the city, the headquarters of some fashion company you’d never heard of. _LaCroix Couturiers_ , the building had read. From the dirty looks you had received upon walking in with your eclectic, neon style, you can tell the corporation is urbane and sophisticated. In other words, the exact opposite of you. A few hundred years ago you might have been bothered by the unspoken divide of condescension between you and them, but by now you’ve lost all semblance of caring you used to possess.

The elevator ride to the fifty-seventh floor is unbearably long to the point where you think you could have run up the stairs faster. Insufferable French jazz music plays over the sound system, so you jimmy the metal plate covering the elevator control panel and implement a rudimentary hack to silence it. The rest of the ride is silent.

You’re excited, you realize, as you bat your lashes at the receptionist outside the office labeled Guillard to gain entrance without an appointment. It’s been centuries since you’ve felt this giddy over anything and you revel in the feeling before pushing your way into the room.

She sits behind a gaudy redwood desk in a plush wingback chair and eyes you with something akin to offense.

“It is rude to enter without knocking, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s also rude to give someone your business card without even telling them your name or anything, but here we are.” You place the pastry in front of her and flop into one of the velvet chairs on the other side of her desk.

“It is principle to assume most all strangers I meet already know my name.” She assesses the pastry for a moment before taking a small bite.

“Well, I don’t.”

A perfectly-groomed eyebrow arches toward her hairline. “Really?”

“Yup. Never see you before in my life.”

“Where exactly have you been living for the past decade?”

“Hell.”

She sharply exhales through her nose in something akin to a laugh. “I could say the same.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

You decide now might not be the best time to divulge your status as a milenium-old creature living out its afterlife and change subjects. “So what, are you supposed to famous or something?”

“Indeed.”

“And what are you famous for? Being pretentious?”

“I run my own fashion line. I started this company in Paris when I was eighteen. I single handedly became one of the world’s most prosperous designers.”

“Well, how pre _french_ ious of you.”

“I may not know you but I will not hesitate to slap you.”

“Implying you’d be more likely to slap someone you _do_ know?”

“ _Absolument._ It would be rude to slap one you do not know.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to get to know me better, then.” You grin like that cat from that book you liked as a child but can’t recall the name of and she rolls her eyes.

“Have you any shame?”

“Not a bit. Circling back, you still haven’t told me your name.”

“Amélie. Amélie Guillard.”

“A pleasure,” you reply with a mocking French accent, curtsying in your chair.

“This is the point in which you introduce yourself as well.”

“Call me Sombra.”

“That is not a name.”

“Says who?”

“I do. I gave you my full name.”

“Fine, I’m Sombra Muertos.”

“You expect me to believe your surname is _dead_?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you lie about something so simple?”

“There is power in a name, and true power has no name. ”

“And you call _me_ pretentious...”

“Hey, _mami_ , there’s a difference between pretension and arrogance.”

“I am fairly certain they are synonyms.”

“You can’t think like a dictionary, you have to know the difference in your heart.”

“Tell me, Sombra,” she crosses her long, elegant legs, “why are you here?”

You shrug. “I don’t have anywhere else to be. You’re the first person to catch my attention in a long time.”

“I feel _so_ honoured.”

“Shut it, Guillard.”

The answering machine on the desk sparks to life with the voice of the receptionist you had used your powers of attraction on. “Ms. Guillard, your eight o’clock appointment is here.”

“I am afraid I must cut our meeting short, _ombre_.”

“Can I get your number this time around so I don’t have to ride an elevator for fifty-seven floors if I want to chat?”

She withdraws a ballpoint pen from a drawer and scribbles a flowing cursive phone number on a small yellow piece of notepaper.

“I have a feeling you are going to abuse this privilege.”

“You bet your ass I am.”

She sighs as you take the paper and step over to the door, then chuckles and it sounds like music. “ _Magnifique.”_

“See you soon, _amiga_.”

“ _Au revoir, agacement_.”

On your way out you walk by a surly-looking man with greying hair and a bespoke suit. As you wait for the elevator you can hear Amé greeting him, speaking kindly and profusely thanking him for seeing her. It makes a frown curl on your face. How quickly she can become someone entirely different.

Back in the elevator descending to the ground floor, you stare at the blue ink phone number with something akin to satisfaction thrumming in your chest. You don’t know what you’re trying to do here, why you’re drawn to this woman. Even if you develop something that lasts, you’ll have to address your being dead at some point, and you will inevitably outlive her. Nothing ever lasts for you, and never has.

But for now, you have this. As the elevator dings upon arrival, you input the number into your phone as ‘Amélie (baguette emoji)’ and send her a meme. Even if it is only temporary, at least you will have something to live for as long as she allows you.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> évidement - obviously  
> faire taire - hush  
> absolument - absolutely  
> ombre - shadow  
> magnifique - magnificent  
> au revoir, agacement - goodbye, annoyance
> 
> existential angst crossed with lukewarm banter and a plot i never finished? altogether i think i'll chalk this up as a win  
> feedback is always welcomed at comrade-schlau.tumblr.com


End file.
